Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [12]
“Sure is,” Gerry said.
Atlantic City was a thirteen-mile-long island, and their arrival on its north end was greeted by the brilliant neon of half a dozen names synonymous with gambling. Casinos had sucked the lifeblood out of Atlantic City, and Gerry stared down the Monopoly-named streets he’d once played on, seeing poverty and despair.
At a traffic light Davis hit the brakes. “You hungry?” he asked.
Gerry was thirty-six, and could still eat an extra meal and not have trouble getting into his pants. His father had warned him that someday he would pay, but so far, he wasn’t sweating it.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Sacco’s Sack O’ Subs.”
Sacco’s made the best submarine sandwiches in the world, and was located on the southern end of the island, in the town of Ventnor where Gerry had grown up.
“You’re on,” Gerry said.
The restaurant was hopping when they arrived. Taking a booth in the back, they ordered the signature sandwich, an Italian hot sausage sub, then waited for their food. A couple in the next booth were talking with Jersey accents so thick that an outsider would have needed an interpreter to understand them. Gerry felt right at home.
Their sandwiches arrived. A TV set above the counter was turned on, showing Skip DeMarco playing at the World Poker Showdown.
“DeMarco used to come into the card rooms here.” Davis sprinkled grated cheese over his sandwich. He wasn’t sweating the calories either and took a big bite.
“How did he do?” Gerry asked.
“Lost his shirt. He filed a beef with the police, claimed the other players were taking advantage of his blindness and cheating him. It never went anywhere.”
Gerry lowered his voice. “DeMarco is George Scalzo’s nephew. He’s scamming the World Poker Showdown.”
Davis’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I’ll be. How’s he doing it?”
“That’s what I came to Atlantic City to find out,” Gerry said. “My father thinks the scam’s secret is at the Atlantic City Medical Center where my buddy Jack Donovan just died. He wants me to snoop around the hospital, see what I can find.”
Davis chewed reflectively, perhaps familiar with Gerry’s friend’s shady past. “Most of the staff at the hospital know me pretty well. Maybe I can help you.”
“You’d do that?” Gerry asked.
“Sure. I’d like nothing better than to see George Scalzo and his cheating nephew in jail.”
Gerry lowered his sub to his plate. The distrust he’d felt for Eddie when he’d stepped off the plane had vanished. He started to say okay, then stopped himself. His father did not like having outsiders help with jobs, even when they were friends. Gerry needed to run this by the old man, make sure he was okay with it.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, sliding out of the booth.
He powered up his cell phone in the parking lot. He could taste the salt air coming off the ocean, could remember all the summers he’d spent playing on the beach. Growing up, he’d assumed that he’d raise a family here, but the arrival of casinos had changed that. Now, he could no more imagine living in Atlantic City than in Baghdad.
His phone’s message icon was blinking, and he went into voice mail. Detective Pete Longo, head of homicide for the Metro Las Vegas Police Department, had called two hours ago. Saying he needed to talk to Gerry urgently, he left his number. Gerry had met Longo in Vegas and considered him a stand-up guy. He punched in Longo’s number.
Longo picked up after two rings. His voice was all business.
“Your father tells me you’re in Atlantic City,” Longo said.
“That’s right. I arrived a couple of hours ago,” Gerry said.
“Can you prove that?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re a suspect in a double homicide, that’s why,” Longo snapped.
Gerry felt the hair on his neck stand up. He’d been crosswise with the law many times, and knew that cooperation was the key to staying out of trouble. He asked Longo to hold, then went back into Sacco’s, and found Davis working on his gums with a toothpick.
“I need a favor,” he said, sliding into the booth.
“Name it,” Davis said.
Gerry handed Davis his cell phone.
“Talk to this